


Bereft

by MUSEquera



Category: Muse (Band)
Genre: Angst, First Time, Fluff, Friendship/Love, M/M, Porn With Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-08
Updated: 2015-04-08
Packaged: 2018-03-21 21:16:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3705045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MUSEquera/pseuds/MUSEquera





	Bereft

I wake up with a start, heart pounding in my chest. It’s pitch dark, and my eyes are automatically drawn to the lit up time display on my iPhone. Fuck o’clock. What the hell? I sit up, grinding the heels of my hands into my eyes, and look around in confusion, trying to work out what in god’s name startled me awake in the middle of the bloody night.

The answer comes in the form of a bout of savage pounding on the door, the sound magnified in the sleepy silence of the apartment block. Cursing a blue streak, I kick away the covers and get out of my warm, comfortable bed, ready to unleash hell on whoever it is on the other side of the door.

The tirade of abuse that is bubbling up dies unuttered at the sight that greets me as I pull the door open. If I didn’t know better, I’d think I had a street bum to contend with, but I do know better, and my stomach lurches at the sight of him. My eyes flicker over his figure as he slumps against the doorframe, taking in soaked crumpled clothes, hair clinging to his face in dripping tendrils, twitching hands, and bruise-like shadows under puffy, vacant eyes.

He raises his fisted hand like an automaton as if to knock again, oblivious of my presence or the fact that the door is already open, and my concern ratchets up several notches. I close my fingers around his wrist and bring it down gently, whispering his name, and breathe a sigh of relief when he blinks and his eyes focus on me.

My relief is short lived, though. I pull at his hand and he squelches in, but just stands there, silent and unresponsive, shivering as water drips off him and soaks slowly into the carpet. Questions pile up, but first things first. I remove his dripping jacket and, reaching for the throw rug on the back of the sofa, wrap it around him, then kneel down to relieve him of his waterlogged shoes and socks, carefully handling his cold feet with a growing fear clutching my heart in a vice.

That done, I get up and, taking his wrist once again, I steer him towards the sofa, “Come on, come and sit down, you look all done in.” He follows meekly, never a good sign, and, when I push gently down on his shoulders, he sits without argument, pulling his legs up to curl into a tight, sodden ball. 

I look down at him, filled with growing feelings of unease and helplessness; I haven’t seen him like this since… Actually, no. I haven't ever seen him this bad. Not quite knowing what to do, I default to offering warmth and comfort. 

Keeping a close eye on him, I go back to the hallway to rummage through the airing cupboard for a couple of blankets, and return to cover his now shivering form with them, whispering soothing nonsense while I tuck them in close until he’s cocooned in their warm embrace, breathing easier when he seems to respond to my voice, his eyes flickering open to follow my movements.

Sitting down next to him, I tentatively reach out, careful to move slowly, knowing he’s likely to lash out if startled when he’s like this. Gently, I brush the mess of damp hair away from his forehead, following through to bring my hand to rest at the back of his neck, feeling the warmth starting to bloom under his cold, clammy skin.

He leans into my touch, and I close my eyes in a silent prayer of thanks, pulling him close against my side and wrapping my arms around the bundle of blankets, hardly able to feel his slight body through their bulk. I hold his rigid form silently for what seems like an eternity before he sighs and slowly loosens his stiff limbs, wriggling in the circle of my arms to get closer until his head is resting on my shoulder.

A pale hand emerges slowly from the blankets to spider across my chest, clutching at the fabric of my tee as if it were a lifeline, and his eyes seek mine from under his long lashes, the pain in them sending a shiver down my spine. Covering his hand with mine, I press my lips to his forehead, wishing I could magically draw his pain away, but this is no fairy tale, and I need to know what’s caused this mess before I can work out how to help him. 

Mentally girding my loins for what is to follow, I crane my neck and let go of his hand to tilt his chin up a bit. “What happened?” I ask softly, and he barks a mirthless cackle, a bitter travesty of the utterly silly and happy sound that is his laughter. I wince as if he’d slapped me, but before I can say anything he answers my question, his voice rough and devoid of affect, “He left me.”

I gape at him, a plethora of conflicting emotions swirling around within me, but eventually the enduring ties of friendship that define us come to the fore, and I tighten my arms around him, whispering, “I’m sorry, love, I’m so sorry.” into his still damp hair. He presses against me as if he wants to disappear inside me, the sharp contours of his body digging painfully into mine, but I don’t even flinch, holding him closer as nerve-wracking sobs shake his slight frame.

I close my eyes as his pain becomes mine, the ineffable link that has connected us since the day we met, as if we were twins separated at birth, asserting itself. It’s not always an easy thing to live with, this connection between us, but on days like today it becomes both a blessing and a curse. He feels so deeply, this adopted twin of mine, his emotions are so raw and powerful that, when unleashed from his tight control, they become a devastating maelstrom that threatens to destroy him. 

This weird, codependent, symbiotic relationship that has evolved from the instant friendship between us has allowed me to become his armour, to shield him from the worst excesses of his rampant emotional storms, but this role is one that comes at a cost—a cost that I’m always prepared to pay—and the currency is pain.

I rock us gently though the worst of it, schooling my breathing into a deep, soothing pattern, projecting calm and comfort and love, my hands softly stroking his hair and his blanket-swaddled back, my lips brushing his fevered skin as his grief dissolves itself in tears.

Eventually his shaking stops, and he slumps exhaustedly against me, sniffling weakly into my tee—now soaked with his tears and, going on past experience, a goodly amount of snot—and rearranging his spindly limbs into a more comfortable position under his cocoon of blankets. 

His hand releases its clutch of fabric to blindly seek mine, his need for physical contact undiminished by the years, and I thread our fingers together, squeezing gently, “Better?” I smile as he nods into the crook of my neck and, taking a deep, cleansing breath, lets it out in a sigh, his fingers fluttering in my grip like restless hummingbirds. “Is it too soon to confess that I never liked the bastard?” my poor attempt at humour is rewarded by a hiccuping giggle, and I grin like an idiot at my success. 

My silly quip seems to settle him a bit, so after a few quiet moments, I ask softly, "Do you want to tell me about it?" To my surprise, he nods a weak 'ok', and, after a slight hesitation, straightens up, pulling the blankets close, to sit half-facing me, his hand holding mine in his startlingly strong grip, eyes down and lower lip snagged between his teeth, the image of conflicted reluctance.

I squeeze his fingers in reassurance, and, with a slight nod to himself, he starts talking, his voice just above a whisper. "You know we've been having problems, yeah?" his eyes dart up to look at me shyly from under his eyelashes—he's never been comfortable sharing 'emotional stuff'—and I nod at him encouragingly.

"It's my fault, really," he goes on softly, his features pinched in self-deprecation, "me and my commitment issues." I try to control my frown, knowing those are not his words, but I lose the battle when he goes on, in his usual helter-skelter, tumbled way, "We had a horrible fight this morning another one a screaming match where we shouted horrid unforgivable things until we were both hoarse and in the end he told me that I'm emotionally closed and that I'll never be able to have a functional loving relationship because I don't let anyone in and then he told me he'd had enough and he left."

He takes a breath, but before I can get a word in, he keeps going, a bit more calmly, now that he's done with the worst of it, "I went out for a walk to try to think things through, work out what to do, and then it started to rain and I lost track of where I was and just walked around and around and around until I was so tired I didn't know what I was doing, and then the next thing I knew I was standing outside your door, and I was so relieved because you always know what to do, but you weren't answering the door, and I didn't realise it was so late, and... I'm sorry I woke you up... I... I'm sorry."

By the time he's run out to puff, my teeth are hurting, I'm grinding then so hard, and I'm having to make a conscious effort not to crush his slender fingers in my fist, but I restrain myself, because my righteous anger against his twat of a boyfriend—ex now, thank christ, his taste in men is really appalling—is of no use to him now. Silent tears are pooling again in his limpid eyes and running down his cheeks while he looks at me dejectedly, as if awaiting a verdict.

My heart goes out to him. As usual, seeing him in pain unmans me, and at the same time awakens a driving need to protect him. Never mind the fact that sometimes I could strangle the annoying little bugger with my own two hands, his need invariably becomes my compulsion, and I wouldn't have any other way.

"Come here." I say, pulling him close, "I'm glad you ended up here, safe, even if you woke me up in the middle of the night." His face falls, and I mentally kick myself; when he's this fragile he's frustratingly literal, and even the lightest form of irony can batter him. With a sigh, I tighten my arm around his shoulder and smile at him, "I don't mind, you tit, I was just kidding."

"And for the record," I go on, unable to restrain myself, "there is nothing wrong with you, and if that fucker ever shows his face around here I'll be happy to disabuse him of his misconception." Despite the fact that I'm dead serious, despite the tears in his eyes, his lips twitch lightly at my words, and I have to admit that the mental picture of me facing up to the hulking rugby player type is, to put it kindly, mildly amusing. 

"Hey! I would too!" I huff, expecting one of his lightning fast twatty replies, but instead he meekly agrees, his expression unreadable as he looks at me out of the corner of his eye, "Yeah, I know." and then, looking down until all I can see of him is the tip of an ear poking through longish dark hair, he whispers so quietly that I can't really be sure I actually heard it, "My hero." 

I blink at his complete lack of sarcasm and at the dark pink flush that suffuses his ear tip until it seems to glow, my heart doing a somersault inside my chest and my skin pebbling with goosebumps. I absently rub down the hair standing like fine bristles on my arm, frowning a bit in confusion at my body's wayward reaction to two barely heard words.

When he finally lifts his head to look at me, hair drying in unruly spikes, lambent eyes fringed by lashes still heavy with tears, vaguely rodent-like features fully flushed and made sharper by the shadows cast by the table lamp, my heart misses a beat at the look of him, his improbable beauty hitting me like a blow to the chest.

My sharp intake of breath is loud in the quiet room. A tiny frown mars his brow for a brief moment, and then his eyes widen, recognition flashing in them like blue fire. For a breathless, endless moment, they hold me captive in their depths, and I allow myself to drown in them, heedless of the consequences.

I feel like a rabbit caught in a car’s headlights, paralysed in the blinding light of this sudden, mutual attraction I can feel reverberating between us like a physical thing. My eyes are wide open but unseeing, and when he moves, it is the soft rustle of fabric and the almost imperceptible displacement of air against my skin that alerts me to it.

As thin, soft lips brush against mine my eyes flutter closed, and something deep inside me breaks into a million pieces, sending a live current through my veins until I could swear I can hear my blood fizzing, starbursts scintillating across my closed eyelids as a tidal wave of emotion washes over me. 

Suddenly I can’t breathe, engulfed in a black surge of panic at the feelings this faint brush of lips has sparked. My head spins with their intensity, and I whimper, holding him to me in a grip that combines abject fear and a desperate, newborn need. 

His lips open under mine, both tentative and assertive in their surrender, and my world becomes the taste of his tears on my lips and of his breath on my tongue as I blindly, urgently, explore the warm gift of his mouth, unable—or is it unwilling?—to question this unexpected revelation that has stricken me like a bolt of lightning.

Suddenly, his lips release mine with a soft pop, and when I open my eyes all I see is startled blue. “I… I’m sorry.” he stammers, dark eyelashes masking the glorious blue, his flushed face a study in embarrassment as his hands drop dejectedly to his lap and he clumsily backs away, trying to put space between us.

"No!" I whisper, reaching for him, already mourning the loss of his newfound touch, “Don’t.” I don’t understand this… this… I don’t even have the words to describe what this is. Transformation? Revelation? I don’t care. It feels so right that it's as if I’ve been sucker-punched, and his sudden withdrawal scares me more than I care to think about.

“Please…” My eyes second my lips’ plea, my hand, like a beggar’s, extended between us. There is fear in his wide eyes as he looks at me from his crouch against the arm of the sofa, watching me warily as I slowly, carefully, close the gap between us until our knees are almost touching and I am able to place my hand on his thigh. 

I can feel his muscles tighten at my touch, putting me in mind of a skittish colt about to take off in fright, and I draw slow, soothing circles with my thumb to gentle him, saying, in my very best calm voice, “Shhhh, why are you apologising to me? you have nothing to be sorry about.” Trying a small smile on for size, I wheedle, “Come on, take a deep breath for me, yeah?” 

I nod like a fatuous idiot in encouragement, and my smile widens in relief as he nods back lightly, takes a breath and releases it shakily, his eyes still following my every move, but no longer glazed with fear. “Ok… that’s good.” I take a deep breath of my own and move back a bit, giving him space, but placing my arm along the back of the sofa, an open offer of comfort.

In other circumstances, it would have been funny to watch him struggle, caught between his need for physical reassurance and his fear/reluctance/whatever as he twitches in place, and in the end I take matters in my own hands, unable to watch him struggle another second.

“Oh, come on, it's just me, get your arse over here, will you? you’re making me twitch!” Ok, I'll freely admit this is not my brightest, most diplomatic moment, but sometimes the only way to get through to him is the 'barge right through' kind. 

It works, too. With a hard blink, an audible swallow and an apologetic little look, he finally shifts and scoots closer, his nature reasserting itself as he snuggles in, rests his head on my shoulder and once again grabs a handful of my tee in his restless hand. I relax a bit: normal programming has resumed. Only it hasn't, because now he buries his face in the crook of my neck, his lips brushing softly, tantalisingly, against my skin as he says "I can't lose you too." 

Oh. 

OH.

Christ, I'm a moron. Ok, time to step up to the plate. "Hey, hey, hey, no way. The only way you'll ever lose me is if you actually want me out of your life." I tell him earnestly, craning my neck to try and look at him, but he's still firmly buried in my neck and clinging desperately with all his considerable strength. 

Threading my fingers through the silky strands of his hair, I try again, "You should know by now that there's nothing you could ever do that would drive me away. You're stuck with me for the duration." Shaking him a little when he doesn't respond, I insist, "You do know this, don't you?" 

His nose peeks shyly out from under my chin, followed by the rest of him, and the way he looks at me, like I'm his salvation, sends a shiver down my spine. "Promise?" Had it come from anyone else, I would have rolled my eyes at the question, and dismissed it as coyness. Coming from him, though, I know it's his chronic insecurity overriding his judgement, so I do promise.

For a moment it seems as if my words have hit the target, but only for a moment. "But..." Yep, there's always a 'but' with him, his tendency to overthink things the downside to his brilliant brain. Mind you, in this situation perhaps a bit of thought wouldn't go astray; after all, he's just been dumped, and we may be about to step into uncharted territory.

"I know you're scared." I say gently, taking his hand, "I am too. This..." I make an ineffectual gesture to encompass the two of us, "is a bit of a paradigm shift," I smile wryly at the understatement, but the import of what I'm about to say sobers me up as I continue, "but I have never had anything feel so right in my whole life." 

His face lights up at my words, and for a long moment I lose myself in the gold flecks that hide in the blue depths of his eyes. "I know you felt it too. Trust that." I entreat him, letting go of his hand to tuck a wayward strand of hair behind his ear, the familiar action becoming an intimate caress in this unfamiliar context. 

The contact sparks like an electrical charge between us, a gravitational force that cannot be denied, and we slowly, hesitantly, fall towards one another, powerless to resist, eyes fluttering closed as our lips touch, and any lingering doubts that I may have harboured dissolve like mist before the sun at the feel of his lips on mine.

Oh, god, I'm drowning in him, already addicted to the way his lips move so sweetly with mine, as if we'd had a lifetime of practice. His hands take flight to frame my face and, suddenly assertive, he nibbles at my lower lip, his tongue darting out to lick the light imprint of his teeth on my flesh. To my surprise, I find myself submitting to his gentle aggression, my lips parting of their own accord to grant him entry.

He kisses me softly, with the barely held restraint of a desert dweller who unexpectedly falls upon a pool of cool water, trying to slacken a burning thirst whilst savouring every single drop. And as he sips from me, I melt, my head reeling in an overload of sensation, the gentle, brotherly love that has always burnt like a living flame in my heart blossoming into something deeper, brighter, becoming a wildfire that sears me and brands him into my soul.

I whisper his name against his lips like a prayer, and he leans back to look at me with eyes full of wonder that reflect my own. His thumbs caress my cheekbones as incredulity, happiness, awe, fear, a myriad conflicting expressions, chase each other on his face, his features finally settling into a look of pure, radiant love.

Battered, bruised and bedraggled, he is still the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, and when he focuses his bright, unfettered smile on me, my heart misses a beat. Leaning in, he rubs his nose against mine, a poignant reminder of a time when Eskimo kisses were his favourite form of greeting, an indulgence I allowed him despite schoolyard taunts because he would have been hurt by my rejection—and because even then I was powerless to resist his kittenish affection.

"Hi." he whispers, resting his forehead against mine, and I grin like a demented fool as I answer, inanely, giddily, “Hi.” It seems to be the right response, because, with a happy little sigh, he slides down and snuggles into my side. Tucking his head under my chin, I wrap my arms around him and his bundle of blankets, listening to his slow, even breath as I count slowly in my head. 

I giggle quietly as he starts twitching before I even reach 30, and he pokes my ribs with his finger, whining, “Don’t, my clothes are still wet, and they are getting cold and uncomfortable.” Oh, bugger! With all the excitement I’d forgotten about the drenching he got on his way here. Some friend I am. “Right then,” I say, straightening up and pulling him up with me, “hot bath and warm dry PJs for you, my lad.” 

He pouts at me, his relationship with water and personal cleansing products hit and miss at best, and not improved by age, but I’m wise to his little ways, “Come on, you need to warm up, or you’ll catch your death of a cold, and you know you really enjoy baths, once you stop grousing and actually get in the bloody bath, so stop looking at me like I’m trying to murder you and get your skinny arse to the bathroom.” 

Not waiting for agreement, I herd him, trailing blankets like a royal train, out of the living room and down the hallway to the bathroom, where I start the water running extra scalding hot, the way he likes it, pour in some relaxing bath oil, and then point to the stool, “Sit. Keep an eye on the water. I’m going to get you some dry clothes.” I walk to the door, and then I remember the last time he had a bath at my place, so I stop and fix him with a death stare over my shoulder, “And don’t even think of touching my good bath salts.”

He gives me his very best ‘butter wouldn’t melt’ wide eyed look, the one that spells ‘trouble’ with a capital ’T’, so I retrace my steps and, picking up the jar of salts, place it under my arm with a triumphant “HA!”, and walk out with my head held high, his idiotic, infectious giggles following me all the way to my bedroom.

It takes me a while to find a suitable hiding place for the bloody jar—I don’t trust the little bugger as far as I can throw him, I’ve been the butt of his pranks for most of our lives—and by the time I come back to the bathroom, a pair of flannel PJ pants and one of my ratty sleeping tees under my arm, the bath is almost full and he’s snoring softly, his head resting awkwardly against the side of the basin, looking small and washed out and vulnerable.

I should really wake him up, before he gets a bad crick in his neck, but not quite yet. I reach in to close the tap, and then lean against the doorframe, watching him sleep with new eyes, trying to process what just happened. He's always been the chink in the armour I wear around me like a cloak, the twatty little fiend has had a direct line to my heart from the very moment we met, but this... this will take some adjusting to. 

Or maybe not. Maybe this is just a natural progression in the arc of this most unusual of friendships—have I mentioned that every single one of his boyfriends hated me on sight? Maybe they saw something that we were blind to, and reacted to it with predictable testosterone-laden territorial one-upmanship. Damn. I guess after today I won't be able to tease him about his appalling taste in men any more.

I bring myself out of my reverie with a shake, he's not getting any warmer while I daydream. Pushing off the doorframe, I place the PJs on the closed toilet lid, and pull a couple of towels out of the cabinet. That done, I squat in front of him, taking his hands in mine, "Wakey, wakey, droolface, your bath is ready." 

True to form, he scowls at me, and he informs me haughtily, "I do not drool." Laughing, I wipe the trail of drool making its way down the side of his chin with my thumb, "Of course you don't. Now get in the bath, or I swear to god, I'll throw you in clothes and all. You feel like an icicle."

Muttering to himself, he peels off the blankets, and then proceeds to tackle his jumper. It does not go well. The clumsy git manages to get his head caught in the neck opening, and it looks as if one of the sleeves has taken his arm hostage. Watching him twist blindly round and round cursing under his breath, his skinny arse wriggling about, is more fun than I care to admit, but in the end I take pity on him. 

"Here, stand still for a moment, let me help you." I say, snagging him by his belt loops before he manages to brain himself against the edge of the cabinet, and, once he stops struggling, I hook my fingers under the lip of the jumper's neck and carefully pull it over his head. 

"You, love, are the clumsiest bugger in the whole universe." I say, smiling at him fondly as I smooth the wild riot of his hair with my fingers, "Now, do you think you can manage not to be attacked by the rest of your clothes?" He narrows his eyes at me, but he gets on with it, and successfully divests himself of tee and trousers without any further incident. 

I figure nothing much can go wrong while he takes his boxers off—I hope— so I take off towards the kitchen, saying over my shoulder, "I'll go make us a cuppa, yeah? Be in the bath when I get back, or else." The raspberry that follows is epic, and I snigger all the way to the kitchen. 

By the time I come back with two steaming mugs, he is chin deep in suds, head resting on my bath pillow, eyes closed, features relaxed and his breathing even, looking peaceful and at rest. Thinking he's fallen asleep again, I decide to leave him to it and check back on him in a little while. I quietly place his mug on the stool within easy reach and turn to leave, but his voice stops me as I get to the door, "Don't go." 

My knees go from under me at the need in his voice, and I grab hold of the door frame to steady myself before turning to face him. His eyes are still closed, and at first I think I imagined it, but then I notice his flushed face and the way he is holding his breath; he's doing his painfully shy 'don't see me' thing, probably already regretting calling out to me, his pathological fear of rejection overriding his needs.

I take the few steps that separate us and kneel by the bath, reaching out to turn his face towards me. "What is it? I'm here, I'm not going anywhere." His eyes open at my words, and his face goes beetroot red as he says, "Come in here with me?" The moment the words are out, he makes like a turtle, nearly disappearing under the thick layer of bubbles until only his eyes and the wet spikes of his hair are visible. 

My breath catches in my throat and I gape at him, my body agreeing wholeheartedly with his request, while my brain grabs about playing catch up. But only for a moment. Without a word, I take my tee off and step out of my pants, huge eyes watching my every move from over the suds. "Move." I say, leaning over to kiss his forehead, and he sits up and scoots forward, making room for me to step in and sit at the end of the bath with my legs on either side of him. 

Once I'm comfortable, I pull him back to rest against my chest, all tension draining from his body as I close my arms around him. "Thank you." he says quietly, "You're welcome." I say, just as quietly, my lips against his temple, and he settles with a sigh, his hands playing with my fingers under the water, an old habit of his that he's never grown out of, a sure sign that he's deep in thought. 

After a while, he turns his head to look at me, "Is this weird?" I shake my head, "No. Different. Surprising. But no, not weird at all." That sounds a bit lame, and I try again, "It... feels right." I shake my head again, this time in frustration; words are his territory, not mine. Tightening my hold on him, I go on, "You feel right, here, in my arms."

Making a squeaky, happy little sound, he squirms and turns until he's sitting curled up in my lap, unaware of the effect all his wriggling about has on me. Or maybe not, because once he's good and done, the sneaky little bugger smiles his crooked smile up at me, saying, with one last wriggle, "I like being here, in your arms." 

Damn his eyes, he likes to push my buttons, and I guess I've just handed him access to the only no-go area that was left between us, wrapped a bow around it, and placed a big sign over it saying 'big red button'.

"Behave!" I say with a long suffering sigh, more out of habit than any expectation that it will get me a result, and, truth be told, the fact that he's teasing me is kind of reassuring—at the back of my mind I've been worrying that this might change the dynamic between us.

I was right, though, no result whatsoever. I do, however, get one of those little smirks that make him look even more adorably rodenty than usual, "You don't really mean that, do you?" Resistance is futile, and the Borg have nothing on him. Anyway, he's right; I don't really mean that at all, as the cheeky sod knows full well, seeing as he is practically sitting on the evidence, as it were. 

"Shut up and kiss me, you twat." I say, dragging myself right down to his level, and, knotting my fingers in his hair, I take possession of his mouth with his more than enthusiastic cooperation, water splashing all over the floor as I kiss him until I have no more breath left.

When I let go of his lips, he smiles at me, one slender finger tracing the line of my collarbone, "If you promise to kiss me like that every time, I'll bath more often." He really is constitutionally unable to quit when he's ahead, and that is almost invariably his downfall. Bringing up his questionable hygiene habits in my presence is a major tactical error on his part. 

I narrow my eyes at him, "When was the time you were up close and personal with water?" I take a closer look and my voice goes up an octave in outrage, "And come to think of it, when did you last wash your hair? I don't think I've seen it that greasy since you were a pimply teenager." His guilty, crestfallen look is all the answer I need, "Right, pass me the shampoo bottle."

He grumbles a bit, but does as he's told, knowing this is a battle he will not win, and then, with a martyred sigh, he rearranges himself to sit up in front of me, looking like a prisoner being led to the gallows. "Lean back, get your hair properly wet." I say, taking no notice of his idiotic behaviour, to get things moving along. He looks back at me as if I'd asked him to sacrifice his first born, and then, pinching his nose with his fingers, performs the clumsiest dip known to man and comes back up spluttering like an asthmatic whale.

Ignoring the theatrics, I pour a dollop of shampoo onto my palm, rub my hands together to lather it up a bit, and pull him back to lie with his head resting low on my chest, "Now close your eyes and stay still, I don't want to get shampoo in your eyes." For all his protestations, the moment my fingers start massaging his scalp he starts purring like a cat, and I grin to myself and let it go without comment.

"Now, lean back under again and give it a rinse." I say without thinking, and, before I realise what a bad idea it is, he's already dipped his head back under the water and is shaking it with gusto, splashing water all the way to the door. "Ooops, sorry." he says, not a bit of 'sorry' on his face as he sits back up and surveys his handiwork. Christ, but he's hard work. 

"Conditioner." I say between gritted teeth, extending my hand over his shoulder in demand, but he must have heard the menace in my voice, because he meekly picks up the conditioner bottle, pours way too much onto his sopping hair, and, without a word, rests his head back on my chest again. I resist the temptation to strangle him, and massage the gloppy mess into his hair, entertaining myself by combing it through with my fingers to get rid of the knots, and arranging it into spikes until he looks like a particularly cute hedgehog.

"Ok," I say when I'm done, "let it sit like that for a while, and then we can rinse it off properly under the shower. Now for the rest of you." He hums sleepily in agreement, but doesn't move a muscle, so I pick up sponge and body wash and lather his arms and neck and chest, which is as far as I can reach with him a dead weight on my chest—and let me tell you, for a skinny little runt, he weighs a ton when he's all soft and floppy.

"Hey, sleeping beauty, time to stand up." I whisper, tickling his nose, a time-honoured, fail safe way to wake him up, and right on cue he bats at his nose with his hand, starts awake, and looks at me reproachfully. "Come on, love," I coax him, removing the bath plug and starting the shower, "the water is getting cold, and I can't reach the rest of you. I know you're tired, but you're only half clean. Come on, stand up for me."

It takes a couple of tries, but eventually I get him to stand up under the shower, and quickly run the sponge over the rest of him and get the conditioner out of his hair without major incidents. By the time I'm done, he's weaving in place, half asleep, so I help him out of the bath, and, placing a towel over my shoulders, I towel dry his hair as best I can, wrap him in the largest bath sheet I own, and sleep-walk him into the bedroom without bothering with sleeping clothes.

I get him into bed and tuck him in, and then go round to my side, giving myself a quick rub with the towel to dry myself properly, get under the covers, groaning when I see the time on the phone screen, and turn the light off. I lay on my back for a while, one arm thrown above my head and the other across my tummy, painfully aware of the slight, warm body asleep like the dead not two feet from mine. Yes, we've shared beds countless times since we were knee-high to a grasshopper, but now... 

The truth is, I don't know what to do. Do I hold him in my arms, like every fibre of my body is screaming at me to? Do I turn away from him and let him sleep in peace? What if tonight was just a pain-induced aberration? Was what we shared just an extreme case of rebound?

I chew on my lip, beset by indecision and fear. I know this is no passing fancy for me, and the strength of my feelings is frightening. I don't think I could bear it if he were to wake up and look at me with shame and regret in his eyes—the mere thought makes my eyes prickle with tears.

The spiralling surge of panic is eventually brought to a halt by his drowsy voice calling my name. "I'm here." I whisper, and, with no more warning than a slight lifting of the duvet, he body tackles me, clinging to me as he says, his voice tight with fear, "I woke up and you weren't there and I thought it had been just a dream." Relief washes through me, and I give thanks to any deity that deigns to listen that my fears were unfounded.

I roll onto my side to face him, my hands busy stroking his hair, his arms, his back, "Shhhh, love, shhhh, you didn't dream it, I'm here. I'm here. Go to sleep." The response is immediate and emphatic: "No." He holds onto me as if he'll never let go, skinny legs tangling with mine, the stubble on his chin lightly scratching my skin as he rubs his face against my chest, as if to reassure himself that I am truly here. 

He feels wonderful in my arms, warm and soft and smelling good enough to eat, the spicy scent of his skin overlaid by the tang of the ocean from my bath products, a seductive, intoxicating mix, and I gasp audibly as my body reacts to his closeness with a fierce intensity that is almost painful. 

When he looks up at me, his eyes are deep, dark pools of desire thinly edged with blue. Releasing his hold on me, he takes my hand, interlacing our fingers, and brings it to his face, leaning into it and pressing his lips to its palm before moving our joined hands down his body in a long, slow caress.

His eyes flutter closed and his breath hitches up as he rolls onto his back, a sublime expression on his face, and his hand falls away from mine, granting me leave to explore his body at will. And explore I do, my hands gliding over the satin of his skin, the familiar topography of his body becoming new and wondrous as I learn the ways in which he likes to be touched, the secret keys to his pleasure. 

His skin is incredibly soft, unbelievably sensitive, and he stretches like a cat under my touch, arching into my hand to seek better contact; twisting, sleek like an eel, to offer undiscovered patches of skin to be caressed.

Unsurprisingly, he's uninhibitedly vocal in his responses, and I let my explorations be guided by a range of gorgeous sounds that runs the gamut from bone-tingling low moans to hair-raising high-pitched squeals of delight.

My mouth follows my hands in their maiden voyage through his beautiful, pale body, urged on by the symphony of his pleasure, and I learn that his nipples are delightfully sensitive, and just breathing on them makes him moan in ecstasy; that he hates having his earlobe nibbled ("ugh, gross"); that, despite being the most ticklish creature on this earth, licking his armpits brings him to a blissful, boneless high; that there is a patch of skin just behind his left ear that will make him squeal and writhe when kissed; that sucking on his toes will get you kicked in the face; that nibbling on the small of his back makes him beg wantonly; that he is embarrassed by his deafening response to the lightest touch along his perineum; that the seam of skin along the juncture between thigh and groin is softer than anything else in this world; that he loves having the back of his knees kissed...

I could have spent the whole night in this slow journey of discovery, but his whimpered pleas are becoming increasingly frantic as he lies there, disheveled, open and primed, so I finally give in and allow myself to focus on his beautiful cock, lying heavy, weeping and neglected on his belly. 

I lift myself on my elbows to hover above it, my nose barely skimming its length, taking in its earthy, tangy scent before I bring my mouth to it. He moans my name as my lips close around his head, and I whimper, the sweetness of his precome exploding on my tongue with the power of a supernova. 

His hips start pumping instinctively, and my already rock hard cock becomes impossibly harder at the thought of him fucking my mouth. I roll us onto our sides to give him better access, slackening my jaw when he starts moving again. His fingers tangle in my hair and I become a passive receiver, letting him take control, breathing slowly through my nose and relaxing my tongue and my throat to allow his pulsing cock to be buried as deep as it will go with every thrust. 

My eyes close in concentration, and my world contracts to the rhythmic, dull pressure of his cock head hitting the back of my throat; his panted breath and the low, atavistic sounds of our pleasure; the sharp contour of his thrusting hips under my hands; the taste and scent of him settling like brand on my skin; the spiralling heat radiating from my own cock as I hump the mattress in sync with the tempo set by his hips.

As his pumping becomes increasingly erratic, I hum and swallow, my throat contracting convulsively around him, and his fingers fist painfully in my hair, his body becoming rigid. He thrusts deep once, twice, and, with a deep growl that triggers my own explosive release, empties himself deep in my throat in long, pulsating spurts, his hips pumping shallowly as he rides the aftershocks of his orgasm.

After a moment's stillness, he lets go of my hair and pulls out slowly, carefully, immediately sliding down to face me as I lie, gasping and exhausted, reeling in the wake of the best orgasm of my life, his fingers gently massaging my scalp, his eyes still glazed by pleasure but his voice thick with concern, "Oh, god, did I hurt you? I didn't mean to be so rough, I just... I completely lost control. I'm sorry, love, I'm so sorry. Are you ok?" 

I am still punch drunk on pleasure, my brain trying to come to terms with my body's reaction to him, but I nod, cupping his face in my hands and bringing him close for a brief touch of lips. "I'm fine," I croak, and try to arrange my aching jaw into a smile in an effort to calm him down, "just done in. That was... unbelievable." He blinks, and then his goofy smile takes over, his face glowing pink with an endearing mixture of pride and embarrassment, "Yeah?" I nod, wrapping my arms around him, "Yeah."

He snuggles in contentedly for a heartbeat or two and then squirms and pulls away, "Ugh. What the fuck was that?" Bracing himself on his elbow, he raises his hips and twists his upper body to look under him, his eyes widening and his nose scrunching up as he realises what he's looking at. "WOW! Is that your jizz all over the bed?" he says, looking back at me, "Impressive!" 

His eyes sparkle at me as he moves to straddle my body on hands and knees, his smirk hovering over me, "You liked, then?" Wheezing with laughter at the little idiot's smug expression, I reach down, snag my towel from where it's lying across the foot of the bed, and pass it to him, "Yes, I did like, you tit. Very much. Now, put that under you and come lie down, stop being a pest."

As he fusses with the towel, I move up to lie with my head on the pillow, grinning to myself at the exchange, proof positive that sex with him will be as madcap an affair as any other form of interaction with the demented little pixie—just a natural extension of the way we've been relating to one another since we were kids.

As soon as I'm comfortably settled, he promptly tucks himself tight against my side, making snuffly little noises of contentment, to lie with his head cradled in my shoulder and one leg hitched across mine, his hand playing absently with my chest hair. All smugness is gone from him, and I can almost hear the gears turning inside his head, but I know it's best to let him work things out at his own pace, so I just lie here, combing my fingers through his hair and enjoying the warmth of his body against my skin.

I can hear the rhythm of his breathing hitch up before he whispers my name, followed by a stage whispered, "Are you asleep?" I shake my head, bracing myself for whatever it is that is eating at him, "No, what's up?" He hesitates for a bit, twisting my chest hair until it pulls, so I place my hand on his to still it, "Stop that. There you go. Now, tell me what's bothering you."

He won't look at me, which means it's either embarrassing or dead serious, and my heart is beating faster the longer he keeps me on tenterhooks. In the end, he blurts it out, in his usual elliptic, incoherent way, "Is this...? Are we...?" Ah, bless his silly soul! He had me worried for a moment. I tilt his head up, "Yes. And yes." I pause, considering, and then go on, beaming at him, "If that's what you want, that is."

He gives me a wan little smile, "Yeah, but..." But? I must be frowning at him, because he brings up his hand and smooths my brow with his finger. "But you don't do relationships." he says, his nose scrunching up at the 'R' word, in imitation of my usual delivery. I stare at him with my mouth open, no doubt looking like the monumental fuckwit that I am. Out of the mouths of babes and lunatics... Ah, christ!

Gathering him in my arms, I hold him tight to me, and, although I must be crushing the breath out of him, he doesn't protest, just clings to me for dear life. When I finally let him go, he eyes me warily, "What did I do?" I shake my head and smile ruefully, "Nothing. You just opened my eyes." He looks at me as if I've gone insane, which under the circumstances is probably a fair assessment. 

Ok. Here goes. "It has just become blindingly clear to me that I don't 'do' 'relationships' because I don't need them. I already have a relationship. I've had a relationship for the last 20 years. With you." Now it is his turn to gape at me, and I kiss his forehead, giggling at my next thought, "Oh, man, this so explains the way your idiot boyfriends reacted to me!" 

His answering giggle gives me life, and suddenly we are both cackling like loons until we are out of breath, ending in an awkward tangle of sweaty limbs and rumpled bedding. "So, to recap," I say, once I have my breath back, straightening both of us and the covers until we are back to lying comfortably wrapped together under the duvet, "yes, we are in a relationship." 

His bum wriggles like a puppy's, his breath warm against my lips as he says, "I like being in a relationship with you." And with that momentous pronouncement, he kisses me stupid, turns in my arms, and curls up on his side, pulling me close until I'm spooning him. With a whispered 'night', he sighs and his body relaxes back into mine, his heartbeat taking on the slow and even rhythm of sleep under my hand. "Good night, love." I whisper, burying my face in the soft skin between his shoulder blades, his name on my lips as I fall asleep.


End file.
